Can you tell I'm a man?

Today I was walking down the street with neighbor guy when it happened. We passed an apartment when some guy, doing a faked deep voice, says "Can you tell I'm a man?" Neighbor guy laughed, said "yeah!", and continued with his sentence. He didn't get it....

Most people don't get it, or they don't hear it. But I do. It wasn't until puberty that it started. But I've heard it so many times. I get it. I will always get it, and I will always hear it. Because it is the cruelest thing you can say to me.

Maybe I should step back here and lay my cards on the table. I'm not your femmy girl. I'm not a biker dyke but somewhere along the line I got the body my brother should have gotten. He's thin and slightly aquiline while I've got Clark Kent's chin, which would be fine, if I were a guy.

I wear skirts.
I wear jeans.
I wear T-shirts and baby tees.
I have tits, and I have legs that go far beyond my knees.

But...

I am not your average girl.
I stand five nine in my bare feet.
I don't wear fancy makeup.
I've got blood red sections to my hair.
And I, have heard it all...

Can I help you sir?
Are you a guy?
Fucking Faggot.
Wisper wisper no,
that's a guy, I'm sure.

I've been followed.
I've been taunted.
I've been harassed,
and I've been hunted.

It doesn't matter if i've got a cunt,
or a sixty-four inch johnson.

They never really want to know...

When they've finally got me
bound and gagged upon the ground.
They'll pull my pants down to my ankles,
blood streaming from my wounds.
And then they'll all take the two steps back
and wonder what to do.

It doesn't really matter then,
with cunt or great big johnson.
Either way, I'm fucked...